


Dextrose Brainpan

by gaspatron, SmokedSalmon



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/F, F/M, Horrorstuck, Humanstuck, Illustrated, M/M, Multi, Sadstuck
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-05-07
Updated: 2012-06-10
Packaged: 2017-11-04 23:29:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,637
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/399386
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gaspatron/pseuds/gaspatron, https://archiveofourown.org/users/SmokedSalmon/pseuds/SmokedSalmon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The longwinded tale about the intertwining lives of a man with spray paint and a woman in platform heels. An explanation for how Dungeons and Dragons, railroad tracks and the Windy City can generate bereavement.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Prologue

 

* * *

 

 

The night Vriska was currently pulling through was a prime example of break dancing in a swimming pool of molasses. With hands clenching the white bedspread beneath her sweat dampened torso, she was beside herself in the kind of personal lamentation that could have only been brought on by years of inexorable self-loathing. When she tried to convince herself she wasn’t the cause of more than one person’s failed dreams, she found herself sinking through the cracks of her stability and further into the kind of personal hell only Dante Alighieri could have fathomed. She had long ago accepted the world above her as a mythological epic spun by the words her friends fed to her through a plastic tube, and it hurt. It stung in the kind of way that brought her to her feet and had her fighting the urge to take down every inanimate object within her reach.

_“You’re being such a baby, Tavros. Don’t you want to know how fun it is? Terezi and I do it all the time, and she’s blind. That’s seriously pathetic. You’re always so pathetic.”_

There was a muffled screech of fury, and she couldn’t tell if it was her or the memory of railroad tracks and bones ripping from ligaments beneath weighty steel. Either way, her fingers latched onto the nightstand, and with a single lurch of the arm, the piece of furniture collided with previously abused drywall. She didn’t have any more posters, so when she woke up in the morning, there would be the reminder of how annihilated she had allowed her brain to become. She was not herself, and God knew she hadn’t been for months, maybe even years. When had the indifference stopped, she wondered. When had it morphed into an animalistic painting of bullshit where, like a braying donkey, she let everyone know how much she didn’t care? Everything was so picturesque in the fake kind of way that made even the most seasoned politician nod in approval, and it was eroding _everything_.

As she mopped up tears she hadn’t even realized were streaming down her flushed skin, she couldn’t breathe. It was her fault, and she knew it. She knew to a point where she couldn’t even believe herself, which was how she had adapted such a strong coping mechanism for her own faults. The people she considered her closest friends were the best kind of victims, and she abused the privilege of knowing such an eclectic assortment of individuals over and over again because she _had_ to. There wasn’t a set in stone explanation for why their heads made such nice toppers for the spikes on her yard’s gate, but they did. They were scenic with disconnected spines and eyes meant for maggots, so she continued. Deep down there was a theory she was living habitually, but the thought was more terrifying than being alone. It was much worse.

There was a knock on her door, and without thinking, Vriska grabbed her closest bottle of perfume and chucked it at the door. “Stay the fuck out! Stay the fuck out, Kanaya, or I’ll fucking destroy you! _Just stay the fuck out_!”

Her voice cracked from how overexerted the last sentence had been, and before she knew it, she was sitting on her mattress. Leaned over her knees with a damp face cradled in open palms, Vriska let out a mournful wail before dissolving into a state of blubbering. She kept telling herself everyone needed to stay out, but she wanted that door to open. Vriska _wanted_ Kanaya to unlock the knob with a bobby pin and sleep beside her the way she usually did because her roommate just _knew_. Kanaya had always known, and the thought of not being able to convince everyone with her rampant cruelty ripped another sob out of the back of her throat. Nothing made sense, and she wanted to know why. She wanted to know why everything around her had gone down the drain and into the winding rivers of her city’s sewer system. Somewhere along the line she had looked away, but she wasn’t sure when. There was no place to pinpoint.

_“You’re such a loser, Tavros. You mess everything up.” Her fingers wrapped around the railing of a hospital bed, and the sound of nurses rushing past the open door forced her to pause. “They don’t let people like you into the air force. Bet you didn’t know that.”_

Again, the want to scream crept up the back of her neck and rang in her ears, but instead, she tore back the blankets to her bed and began making her way beneath them. Too tired to care anymore, she decided she was done with thinking. _No more thinking_ , she told herself over and over again. There was a pillow covering her face, and without realizing it, she was chanting those words into cottony fabric through broken sobbing. It wasn’t long before the demand was turning into desperate pleading because her mind wouldn’t calm down. Nothing would calm down, and her chest was quaking with each inhale. Vriska was doing her best to be quiet so Kanaya wouldn’t knock again, but the effort was futile. It always was.

That was why she didn’t say anything when the sound of quiet clicking infiltrated her sporadic inhales. That was why she didn’t say anything when the handle turned and hinges creaked. That was why, when the mattress dipped, not another word fell from her tongue and teeth.

“I purchased a collector’s edition of a _Next_ print that would look exceptional in here.”

And, like always, it would be there in the morning.

 

 

 


	2. Chapter One

Chapter One

 

* * *

 

 

Sometimes, there was a repetitive thumping that licked its way along the back of the interior of his skull with a sodden tongue and enthusiasm for cerebrospinal fluid. Over and over again this process of erosion continued until the bone was glacé like sordid ribbon candy only a grandmother would find acceptable in a crystal dish. There was no bouldered path of splinters available for nail cleaving grips, but for Gamzee Makara this wasn’t a devastating loss with poignant significance. In fact, as his occipital collided with the trembling glass belonging to the subway train’s window, he was brewing in a state of apparent indifference with eyes lidding blown open pupils and the corners of his lips quirked towards the piss marbled aisle. His air was a display of, _I’m sitting all up in this motherfucking train, brother, and my expression strongly implies you better not try to fucking shank me_. _I’ll make a noose out of your motherfucking entrails_. Brother being the metaphor for society in general and the rest a practiced skill of Windy City survival.

The worming ride through the intricate tunnel system beneath the city of Chicago was a pathway to the depths of urban hell. When the train sharply jolted and the back of his head whipped against the window with enough force to make him wrinkle his nose, Gamzee squinted through the glass opposite to his temporary headrest and waited for the sunshine sparks to combust into bone noshing flames. The whirring and abrupt switch into progressive speeds forced his heart to take a liking to self-harm, and it pounded itself against his ribcage in a desperate attempt to be free before ultimately imploding. The anticipation for a drop off into a lake of embers and shaved flesh left his finger joints twitching. Scents of fermenting viscera and congealing blood would have been a heinous concept for anyone else, but he was partial to the possibilities. _Always with the motherfucking possibilities, man. Trustin’ in miracles._

He counted each screeching stop and registered the robotic voice over the speakers. There were four more of these jerky halts before he reached the Redline Fullerton stop where he planned on stepping off and finding himself in the midst of the well-to-do Lakeview neighborhood. It was a stretch of townhouses each stacked three stories high and twenty minutes away from foreclosure. With precious gates and flowerbeds accenting plots of yard a cow could devour in under an hour’s time, Gamzee periodically wondered why anyone would put their life under suffocating financial strain in the name of apparent nothingness. Granted he was a man of statements, but at twenty-four, he couldn’t wrap his brain around how he had a firmer grasp on the capitalist dogma than people twice his age. Then again, not everyone could essentially huff paint fumes for a living and scrape by. The perks of being artistically inclined with an appeal to the upper-class, he supposed. He was yet to find the root to his own obscure talent, but he tried to pretend it hadn’t derived from a coping mechanism because that was a lame thing to put in an artist’s statement.

 

carcinoGeneticist [CG] began texting terminallyCapricious [TC]

 

CG:  YOU DO THIS THING WHERE YOU LEAVE THE FUCKING COFFEE POT ON BECAUSE YOU WANT TO BURN THE HOUSE DOWN TO ASH SHIT NOTHING. IT’S YOUR ELABORATE ASS BACKWARDS SCHEME TO ANNIHILATE EVERY PIECE OF FUCKING FILM IN THE GOD DAMN HOUSE BECAUSE YOU HAVE A VENDETTA.

TC: ChIlL, bEsT FrIeNd, It tUrNs iTsElF tHe FuCk OfF.

CG: AS STIMULATING AS YOUR FANTASY LAND OF FUCKING STUPID IN PARADISE IS YOU SHOULD KNOW WE DON'T LIVE AT THE HILTON WITH RODENT DOGS AND SPARKLING FLATULENT DUST. IT IS MANUAL. IT IS A FUCKING MANUAL COFFEE POT WHERE YOU TAKE THOSE WEIRD ASS APPENDAGES ON YOUR HAND AND PUSH THE BUTTON THAT CLEARLY SCREAMS TURN ME THE FUCK OFF OR ELSE I WILL TAKE YOUR HOUSE DOWN LIKE WALT DISNEY CIRCA 1940S  ON A JEWISH ADOLESCENT.

TC: CoMe oN, bRoThEr, YoU KnOw i'd nEvEr iNtEnTiOnAlLy bUrN YoUr sWeEt mOtHeRfUcKiNg fIlMs. I'M YoUr bIgGeSt MoThErFuCkIn fAn.

 

When he didn’t get a response after thirty seconds, Gamzee narrowed his eyes at the iPhone’s touchscreen and pocketed it. It wasn’t as if he was invested in the conversation to begin with. His roommate and fulltime best friend was a prolific mood butcher who could take an individual’s sense of self and hang it from a meat hook without timidity. Karkat was a fortunate specimen for meeting someone as patient as Gamzee in the first place. Without reassurance via doped up words and almond-shaped eyes cultivated by Spanish ancestry, Karkat would have been shit out of luck in the friend department. Over and over again he reiterated to his cluster of friends that Karkat was a special case of enchantment meant for the world’s spectral agronomy, which was well and good the first seven times he pissed each one of them off, but Gamzee’s safety net was thinning. No one else seemed to want to take the time to psychoanalyze the kid to unearth his brilliance, and Gamzee was almost certain their acquaintances would have vouched for a lobotomy before taking the extra five minutes to dissect the guy. It was easily disheartening.

The train tore from the underground, and along with the rest of the passengers in his car, he squinted his eyes against the tyrannical sunlight and registered that the next stop was his. Grasping onto the pole wedged directly between his seat and exit, the second the train stopped at the elevated outdoor platform he joggled to his Adidas clad feet. From there, he nimbly worked his way out the doorway and through the striding people peppered along the rusted staircase. This proved to be everything but difficult because he was foreboding with his obnoxious height and distractingly shipshape wardrobe he casually adorned because he _motherfuckin’ could_. Socially constructed norms his asshole, Gamzee was a martyr for the community of fashionable hood rats and those who had conditioned themselves to give everything but a single fuck.

“Fancy meeting you here, Gamzee.” A voice capable of making even the most seasoned eastern European orphans cry forced Gamzee to pause and glance over one of his shoulders. “I was on my way to Spiralz because Kanaya said she wanted to meet me there. Something about the quintessential needs for banana Nutella cupcakes and caffeine in order to make it through the carnage of her thesis paper? Disgusting obstetrician things…”

“ _Aw_ , sounds like a motherfucking blast, sis. I’d walk with you for some chill _tête-à-tête_ , but I’m heading in the—” and he smoothly rolled his forearms over one another before pointing towards the street splayed out before him, “—opposite direction.”

Aside from being a superlative bitch, Vriska was incredibly nosey in her own unconscious way that Gamzee constantly found himself skimming over without much of a reaction. That being said, his exterior wasn’t an accurate reflection of how his gears ticked while around her. The single saving grace for Vriska’s excruciatingly self-centered traits was that she was a regulation hottie. Upon moving in with Kanaya, she had adopted a bohemian glam style, and she was a girl who could have blonde roots peeking through a healthy heap of dyed-to-shit, sapphire hair without looking like a sack of trash. Her pants were always a centimeter away from being tight enough to instigate camel toe, and she was an avid collector of Miu Miu platform heels. Gamzee had watched her sprint in said heels multiple times, and it had been horrifying. Frightening in the way one would watch another human being sprint towards them on all fours, he was continuously wary of her and her commonplace impulses. He would have definitely fucked her, but before the sun even contemplated rising, he would have also definitely vanished.

One of Vriska’s artistically drawn on eyebrows threatened to reach her hairline. “What’s in the opposite direction, _hm_? Oh, I bet I know. I know _exactly_ where you’re going, G _a_ mz _ee_.”

His smile went from tight lipped to wide and glaringly bright due to her dragging out the vowels in his name. She was subtly taunting. “You motherfucking think so?”

“Didn’t you hear me? I said I _know_. There’s no improbability within this vicinity, Mr. Makara.” She strode towards him with a hand lazily planted on her hip. “Make sure you dead leg him a couple times for me? Just in the spirit of good wholesome fun, though. How about right in front of a flight of stairs? We both know how that fixes several problems. From annoying little shits to unhappy accidents, which I guess are essentially the same thing. One is just taken care of sooner than the other.”

“For such a bitter motherfucker you sure spend a lot of time chillin’ with the brother.” Gamzee’s docile façade was threatening to shift, but he kept himself seemingly ignorant to her ever pleasant venomousness. She wasn’t worth it. “You’re heading to the motherfucking meeting tomorrow, too. Never can tell where you stand on shit.”

“I do what I have to in the name of Dungeons and Dragons.” She pushed her bangs off her face with a dramatic huff. “You wouldn’t understand, Señor I-Don’t-Play-A-Mother-Fucking-Anything.”

Gamzee gave a half-assed shrug. “Don’t go making me self-conscious, sister.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it, but I want cake and you’re boring me, so I _un_ -regrettably must leave you!”

He watched her spin on one of those four inch heels and tread down the sidewalk. Naturally, Gamzee admired the way those metallic gold pants clung to her thighs, but it wasn’t long before he disconnected his brain from the moment and moved onward through the fall sunlight of a treeless Chicago. More so than not, he thought about how the last place on earth he wanted to be anymore was the core of his city, but at the same time, there was a force stronger than a gravitational pull he couldn’t explain. Chicago was the earth to his moon, and anytime he began clicking through websites for job openings someone like Karkat stormed into his bedroom and melodramatically reminded him about every single person and aspect of his life he didn’t want to disunite with. Honestly, it was cyclic, but he did his best not to dwell on it because he couldn’t be bothered. In his mind, shit happened for a reason, and that reason would eventually make itself known. He stubbornly believed in the divine workings of Earth’s mother.

At the end of the stretch there was a constellation of apartments nicer than anything Karkat and Gamzee could have joked about someday moving into. A stirring monument to the financial stability of middle class men separating themselves from heternormativity, he thoughtlessly wove his way along the next couple of blocks. Gamzee had taken the same route so many times within that past three months he barely paid attention to his surroundings as he walked. Through the cozy streets and assorted shops where one could simultaneously purchase an agave nectar candle and vibrating cock ring he went, and it wasn’t long before the aforementioned apartments were in front of him. With thoughtless authority, he passed through the front gates and on into a courtyard where apartment fronts were readily accessible.

He stopped in front of his choice apartment and began drumming his fingers along the front door. “Open the door, motherfuckin’ Tavbro!”

 The sound of something squawking caused Gamzee to furrow is eyebrows at the peephole, and had he known Tavros better, he would have sworn there was a string of obscene profanity coming from him. But he did know better, so he didn’t contemplate the possibility again. Even when the door opened up and he was confronted with a frustrated Tavros whose thumb was stuck in his mouth the idea was dead to him. The questioning look Gamzee was quick to wear promptly received a response as Tavros stepped back to let his guest in.

“I cut my thumb because you surprised me so the knife slipped out of my hand, and _yeah_ , apples,” he murmured through saliva contorted words. Tavros soon realized he was just standing there with his thumb shoved in his mouth and nothing left to say about the matter. “ _Uh_ , hold on.”

Gamzee watched Tavros vanish from the kitchen and stride down the hallway, and he realized he was still wearing the green jersey representing the high school he worked at with the capital letters COACH screen printed between his shoulder blades. Wondering how long the guy had even been home, he shrugged the thought aside and shut the door behind him with an audible click before flipping over the padlock; a habit he had developed from living in multiple shoddy neighborhoods. From there, he approached the countertop that resembled a mini crime scene. The veins of redness intermingling with granny smith apple juice created a pattern on the paring knife Tavros had been using. The amount of blood was impressive.

“Damn, you did a motherfucking number on yourself!” He called out only to get the sound of a closing cabinet door. “Needing any help, brother?”

“I’m,” and then a short pause at the sound of something being dropped, “fine.”

Snatching up the blood splattered slice of apple and thoughtlessly popping it into his mouth, Gamzee chewed as he abandoned the cutting board for the bathroom. There Tavros was plopped down on the lid of the toilet and wrapping his thumb with an arched eyebrow. It was a unique expression of concentration Gamzee wasn’t accustomed to seeing on the other’s face, and in turn, he sat down on the edge of the bathtub and leaned over his knees. Wordlessly, he reached out and snatched the ball hat Tavros had been wearing backwards and put it on his own head. Tavros didn’t register the missing article of clothing until he was satisfied with his first aid.

“How’re those sprinting kiddos doin’? That motherfucking running thing they do makes my lungs hurt just thinking about it. It’s a fucking miracle when I walk up a flight of stairs without getting all out of breath.” Gamzee leaned back when Tavros attempted to grab his hat, and in turn, pressed his palm against Tavros’ nose. “ _Honk_ …”

“Smoking doesn’t help that.” He pushed his fingers through his untamed mohawk and eventually slid the hand to the back of his neck. Tavros rubbed at the tense muscles with the pads of his fingertips and found himself not looking at Gamzee but the purple Adidas on his feet. He did the avoiding eye contact thing so much Gamzee had a difficult time figuring out when it was or wasn’t relevant. For all he knew, it was _always_ relevant, which was why he treated the mannerism as if it contained the answer to all cosmic studies. “The being out of breath thing, I mean.”

“Brother, you smoke with me, and you’re a record breaker. Shits all about the divine direction of human energies and where they place us in this flavorsome universe. You being all straightforward about the _hows_ and _whys_ is discourteous to motherfucking blessings.”

“You just deflected medical validation, and…” He trailed off before sucking in a deep breath, and Gamzee laughed at his subtle exasperation. “Why’re you even here? I mean, _wait_ , not that I mind. I never mind, you know. I like it when you’re here and stuff because you’re one of my best friends and—”

“Motherfucker, you just said it. I’m here because you’re my brother.” Standing up, he placed the hat on Tavros’ head and gently yanked the bill downward. “You need to learn to chill on that question and go with the motherfucking flow.”

Gamzee was a man of many talents. Aside from knowing how to drape without an ounce of formal education, he could also recite all of the lyrics to the TLC discography in slam poetry diction without stuttering. When he felt like exerting the effort, he had a knack for making Toaster Strudels look as clean cut as the disembodied hand in the commercial, and on his good days, he could sing Thriller in Spanish. In fact, he was generally good at memorization, which was borderline unnerving because for someone who sucked down Kush like _The Day After Tomorrow_ was on the horizon—or even more terrifying—someone was going to paper cut the webbing of his fingers, Gamzee didn’t forget much of anything. Tavros was one of the few people who had caught onto this talent, which was why anytime he tried to say he didn’t remember anything there were bouts of speculation. At first, Gamzee had done his best to smoothly throw Tavros off by replacing the, “I don’t remembers,” with an even vaguer, “I don’t know,” but that had been as effective as Beyoncé without a weave.

“But to get all up on your inquiries,” Gamzee continued as he flopped down on the couch. “I can’t give you a reason for why I’m in your abode aside from it being full of good fuckin’ juju.”

“I’d have an easier time enjoying Le Bouche with high school kids than believing that lie.”

“High schoolers circa motherfucking when?”

 Tavros appeared in the hallway entrance with his hat fixed. “Uhm, circa _now_?”

Gamzee hissed before covering his eyes with his forearm. “Boy, you wound my feeble cardiovascular sludge in the worst kind of ways. When have I done shit to you?”

There was a pause on Tavros’ part, and Gamzee uncovered his eyes before rolling over onto his side to face the back of the leather couch. He wasn’t sure what he had said to make the other grow quiet, but eventually, the silence even bothered him. He cast a look over his shoulder to see Tavros wasn’t in the room anymore and took a moment to consider the possibilities of him saying the wrong thing. As much as he tried to pick apart the exchange, he didn’t think either one of them was sensitive enough to take anything for more than face value. He wasn’t awake enough to deal with touchiness. The presence of Vriska alone had drained him.

“I bought these.” The sound of metallic clanking derived from the back of the hall, and Tavros reappeared in the living room with a box of spray paint canisters. He looked as if he’d choked down a cheap shot of tequila. Aside from the fleeting expression, Tavros was nonchalant enough to try to walk away. “They were on sale online, and we’re running low, so yeah…”

Gamzee thoughtlessly reached out and wrapped his fingers around the other’s prosthetic shin with the agility of a frog on a fly. His expression had gone from curious to surprisingly thoughtful, and it was enough to make Tavros stop and arch an eyebrow, but his attempt to remain stoic failed. It always did, and soon Tavros’ eyebrows were heading towards one another from guarded curiosity.

When the pair had met at twenty-one and nineteen, Tavros hadn’t mentioned his prosthetics the first two times they’d hung out because keeping them hidden beneath jeans made socializing simpler. He’d eventually slipped the topic into conversation and reassured Gamzee he hadn’t thought he would have think of him differently. Tavros had simply grown accustomed to people treating him the way ableist people loved a mentally disabled child. Pity bothered him more than anything else because he had been a tenth of a second away from making it onto the USA Olympic team and was more than capable of handling himself.

“You implying you want to get your face paint on tonight?” When Tavros shrugged, Gamzee gave him a leaden stare. “God damn, you can’t go be all nebulous on me like that. You’ve been acting strange as snow in hell since you turned the door knob.”

“I, _uh_ , definitely think you’re overanalyzing me lifting my shoulders. I don’t know if I want to because I have to work tomorrow.”

“You’re doing that thing that makes my fuckin’ brain bleed, brother. Knock-knock, on my motherfucking skull. Let me tell you about the Mormon faith.” His pause was infiltrated by a phlegmy fit of coughing, and he cleared his throat before speaking. “It’s not a matter of _knowing_ if you want to get up out of this habitat of yours. You know damn well you want to.”

“You should think about going to a doctor,” Tavros said, and he tried to step out of the other’s grip, but the hold tightened.

“Who’s the one deflecting now?”

They exchanged stares. Tavros had apparently taken another heated shot of his cheap fair, and Gamzee was immersed in his own internal gloating because his partner in crime was contemplating the consequences. They were having a standoff, and the tumbleweeds were seemingly in abundance, but that was only because they were dillydallying for way too long, and it was giving the props master time to toss out more. Everything was boring and people were changing the channel.

Tavros broke. “I can’t afford to get fired. You’d be responsible for my rent and Xbox Live account payment if I was.”

“Chill out on that financial vocabulary, _Tavros_.” He could never say the other’s proper name without mocking elongation. It wasn’t that he didn’t like the name. That was the exact opposite. The problem was he hadn’t addressed him by it from the get-go, which left it feeling foreign in his mouth. He needed the sarcasm to break the inelegance. “Threatening me has some low rates of necessary.”

He reached down and attempted to pry Gamzee’s fingers off him. “I’m not taking anything. It gets weird when we roll.”

"You say that a whole lot, brother.” He fought against the other’s hands. “Especially for someone who decides to roll within an uno momento of me getting—.”

“You’re underestimating my ability to immobilize you again.” Tavros managed to wrench three fingers off, and it wasn’t long before his initial irritation filtered down into feigned frustration endangered by laughter. “Let go or I’ll reiterate the ability with my fists.”

“When you hit me, you make these fucking noises, man. They’re like little motherfucking mouse noises, and they’re cuter than a baby seal flopping on its belly. You’re a baby seal, Tavbro. So, hit me. I’ll dig it.”

“Could you please stop talking?”

“Ain’t a reason for me to stop talking when you like it so motherfucking much.”

The prisoner let out a strangled sound of annoyance when Gamzee brought his other hand over and attempted to push his fingers back down into place. “Why are you like this? Why can’t you be a normal friend who eats my food and just hangs out?”

“All circles back around to you liking it. I’m a man who can not only accommodate your strange motherfucking tastes, _but_ I am skilled at eating. If that’s in your fucking definition of friendship, then let me know if I’m not filling my quota.”

“You make me wish projectile vomiting was a human defense mechanism.”

He guffawed before reluctantly letting go of the other’s leg. “Definitely time to get our paint on.”

 

 

* * *

 

Vriska’s thighs were aching when she pushed open the cupcake shop’s door. Wrinkling her nose as the jingling bell announced her entrance, her eyes wracked across the crowd and two seat tables until she spotted her roommate hunched over a docket steno pad. Kanaya was all concentration with an untouched cappuccino to her left and a cupcake decked out in mile high buttercream in front of her. The telltale sign she had been locked into study mode always derived from the way she was dressed. It wasn’t everyday Kanaya forgot to apply the full regalia of contouring powders and swipes of eyeliner, but she was nude faced with only lipstick to pull her freckle splotched mug together. Vriska realized her exhaustion was serious when she became aware of the untamed hair concealed by a purple beanie and the plain black skirt and halter top free of accessories. It was unheard of. She was witnessing a murder, and as Vriska yanked back a black stool, she was border lining uncomfortable and waiting for body bags.

  
  


 

“I bought the cupcake on a whim, assuming I was genuinely interested in anything confectionary right now. You may have it.” Kanaya spoke without halting the scratching of her pen. “How has your day been?”

“Just got back from Nitram’s, and I passed Gamzee on his way there, too. Poor sucker thinks he’s getting somewhere with that. You can taste the love sickness, and it’s pretty sad. He’s just sad. He’s best friends with our darling Karkat, so that’s standalone evidence.”

Kanaya looked up from her piece of paper just in time to watch Vriska pluck the dessert off the tabletop. Her lips were drawn into a tight line. “What business did you have with Tavros? I recall you storming into our apartment and shoving over the electric wine cellar the last time you returned from his home. You then proceeded to break the screen on your laptop because Karkat referred to you as a miserable shrew, and from an objective standpoint, was accurate descriptive language considering your behavior.”

“Are you agreeing with _Karkat_ , Fussy Fangs?”               

She sucked in a quick breath, fleetingly gritted her teeth, and exhaled through nostrils. “I believe you’re missing the point entirely, Vriska. Though I have no authority in your life, it seems what you have with Tavros is displaced from a healthy department.”

Vriska ran her tongue across her teeth as she removed the paper from her cupcake. “I think that’s an underhanded sentiment, and I don’t need it. Thanks, though.”

She watched Kanaya return to her notes with the hardened expression she acquired anytime Tavros was mentioned. Vriska didn’t understand her friend’s issue with the relationship since it didn’t outright affect her, which wasn’t completely true. She knew dealing with her outbursts wasn’t a walk in the park, but at the same time, Kanaya was her best friend, so it was what Vriska believed to be her friend’s place in her life. Nothing ever happened to Kanaya that needed coddling, so it had never been needed for Vriska to reciprocate the pampering.

“When’s your test?” Vriska had grown bored with the silence. “Did you sleep last night?”

“Tomorrow morning at eight, and no, I did not manage to sleep. I’m hoping tonight will be better. This studying and paper would be a waste if I fell asleep in the middle of my written exam.

She finished the cupcake with a thoughtful face before reaching out and stealing the large mug tempted to overflow due to melting whipped cream. Vriska began scooping it up with her finger. “You’re going to Karkat’s tomorrow, right? Gamzee needs someone to fester beside when we all get together or he’ll sit on Netflix the entire time completely baked. Last time, he worked his way through the first season of Spongebob, and I don’t think it was the first time he had. He was mouthing along to it without stopping.”            

Kanaya shrugged as she continued writing, and when she finished her thought, she capped the pen and began shoving things into her bag. “I will be there.”

“You’re already leaving?” Vriska pointed at the full cappuccino that was still too hot to drink.

“The scent of Burberry cologne wafting off of you is unpleasant,” she said with a quick swallow Vriska wouldn’t have noticed. “If you were occupied, then you could have politely told me so, and I wouldn’t have questioned your whereabouts.”

“I _wasn’t_ occupied. We were done long before you called.”

She stood up. “Did you want anything for dinner tonight? I was contemplating making a salad for myself, but if you’re going to be home, then I would be happy to make sure you ate as well.”

“Where else would I be?”

Kanaya swung the bag over her shoulder before straightening out her shoulders. “Very good question.”

Vriska watched with parted lips as her best friend strode out the shop, and she wondered how on earth they could have miscommunicated. She hadn’t done anything out of the norm. With a sigh and shrug she dragged the cappuccino closer to her and wondered if her other friends were doing anything worth her time. More than likely, Karkat was somewhere trying to be the next Roman Polanski aka working his never ending shift at one of the final movie rental stores in existence, and she would have rather sold her entire shoe collection before hanging out with Terezi. Then again, Terezi did have all of the Dungeons and Dragons books in both braille and glossy pages, which she needed to flip through before the next night’s round. Her Dungeon Master book had taken a shit after she had knocked a cup of coffee on it, and she was yet to buy a new one simply because she was lazy and the books were expensive hardbacks.

She finished her coffee and took the stroll to Terezi’s.

The entire time she walked she found herself pushing her fingers through her hair and messing with the ends of it. She needed some sort of brain bleach, and really, she needed to shower because everything Tavros was on her. It was making her skin crawl straight off the bone. That being said, Vriska was a diehard emotional masochist, so instead of scrubbing until her skin was raw, she decided to fester. Putrefaction was fine. It distracted her from the fact that Kanaya was always right and that her own stupid was becoming stultifying.

“I could smell the desperation and children’s urine before you even reached the door.” Terezi’s laughter was nails on a chalkboard as Vriska shrugged past her childhood companion and into her living room. “Well, that and Tavros’ cologne, which could essentially be considered the same thing.”

Vriska flipped on a light with a leer. “Haven’t even said a word, and you’re already at it.”

“Expect nothing less,” said the redhead before pushing those tinted glasses up the bridge of her nose with a middle finger. A sly smirk appeared as she quirked the corner of her lips. “My best material ends up being used on you for some reason, but tell me, Vriska, what brings you here? I’m solely the confirmation for your doleful existence. I never have much advice to give.”

“I’d never come to you for advice,” she grumbled before striding over to a bookshelf. “Not when you openly request all things tie-dye and wear Crocs.”

“As if your clacking monstrosities are any better. Those are the most obnoxious things someone could put on.”

Terezi made her way to the couch and flopped back down before putting on her headset and opening a laptop. Settled on one of the couch’s arms was Senator Lemonsnout. The savannah monitor was Terezi’s constant companion and regular consultant during her laborious law school studies. He was also the owner of a wig. Lemonsnout was a prideful reptile, though. He rarely felt the need to humor wigs, so Terezi had long since abandoned all attempts to put it on his head.

“But on a serious note; why are you here and why are you dating Tavros again?”

“We’re not dating.” Vriska found the choice book and yanked it off the shelf before throwing herself down onto the couch beside the ginger. Though she had intended on reading all she did was skim over the pictures. “Did someone call you?”

“Your life failings are intriguing in the humans are turned to pavement jelly in car wrecks, but you’re an egomaniac if you believe someone would call me to talk about you.” Terezi began prodding at the keyboard. “But you’re avoiding my question because there _is_ something wrong.”

  
  


 

Vriska glanced over at her friend before looking around the rubix cube of a room. Terezi had given Gamzee full reign over the interior design of her house because there was something about colors and Terezi that didn’t make sense considering her lack of eye sight. Along with tossing in accent walls that clashed to the point of being offensive, Gamzee himself had taken the top pieces of art from his own portfolio and hung them on the wall. Though Terezi hadn’t asked, she had somehow known, and it bonded her to the man because they were the only two whose sensibilities were shaken the same way when in the presence of the works. Vriska had attempted to ask about it once before, but she had been shot down with a comment pertaining to her inability to comprehend things that weren’t face value. Realistically, Terezi was right about Vriska’s lack of sensitivity, but it had still annoyed the blue haired woman. Somewhere, in certain parts of herself, Vriska had depth. It was just a matter of seeking it out.

Vriska dragged her fingertip along the outline of an elven thigh. “I don’t like people.”

“Funny you say that. They don’t like you very much either.”

She laughed and turned a page. “Mutualism is the best kind of relationship for us to have.”

“Karkat told me to tell your miserable-self hello.” Terezi took a second to type. “And that he’s Dungeon Master tomorrow, so stop reading that book as if you need to.”

 

 

* * *

 

When the orange spray drenched the worn and torn brick, the eroded surface crackled away to reveal a psychedelic Milky Way glittering with purples and florescent yellows choked by starry avocado green. Chocolate eyes narrowed at the snaking hues, and the reverberating clanking of Gamzee roughly shaking a can with concentration burning behind his blown out, obsidian pupils echoed down the alley like a ricocheting bullet. Occasionally, he glanced over to watch the fluidity of Tavros’ motions simply because he enjoyed being completely mesmerized by the way the kid could layer color after color and make the dripping chemicals radiate in patterned grandeur that seemed impossible. The kid was just that. He was impossible, and even while rolling like amber waves of grain, Gamzee had no idea how he was supposed to handle a human being like him.

  
  


 

Picking up midnight blue and gray cans, Gamzee swiftly finished up the fin to a globular fish with precise cuts through the air. The creature derived straight from a retelling of an underwater horror story, but the image was faultless but off beam. Palms covered in an array of melting hues, he dropped the cans at his feet and plopped down on the blackened asphalt with an exhausted sigh. There was still plenty of space to fill and dull areas screaming for them to implant celestial bodies into, but he needed to take in the scenery. Lying back, he covered his eyes with an arm and found himself abruptly laughing at his mutilated psyche. The last time he had been as lost in himself he had been twenty years old with a crew that rolled so often they were continuously drained of serotonin. Dropping his free arm onto the ground beside him, Gamzee disregarded the fact his fingers had dipped into a puddle brought to life by liquid silver, and the wetness made his fingers twitch. Flashes of incandescent flora were blinking behind his eyelids, and he dragged a hand over his face in order to resurface. He was voluntarily drowning. 

“Come here, motherfucker,” he murmured, propping himself up on an elbow. He was beyond acknowledging the sensation of gravel digging into his elbow. “We’re creative geniuses spindled from motherfucking golden yarn. Like, we’re all into defying the omnipotence of God. This,” he pointed at their mural.

“This is fucking cosmic, brother.”

Tavros tossed his emptied can aside, and he was soon sprawled out on his back beside Gamzee. Above them was the universe, and there was something lingering within the pits of their torsos that was unified yet so separate it left Gamzee’s fingers smoothing along his own jugular. There was a pulse there, and he swore when he inhaled the air stuttered in his lungs from the subtle disconnection he couldn’t rightfully place. Words were spreading the legs of his tongue and teeth, but there was personal resistance, and he wondered if this was his brain finally collapsing in on itself the way a soufflé faired within a house of adolescent brothers.

“Do you ever feel like planets speak?” Tavros words were thick from gelatinous saliva and silence. “Like, maybe all the astrology we’re fed isn’t some scheme to make money off of?”

“Keep up that talkin’. Your brain is like a fuckin’ belvedere, Tavros.”

“There’s nothing to say anymore.” He stretched out his limbs until something popped. “It’s your turn to talk.”

“There’s nothing up in my fucking brainpan, man. Just the clouds and rain on my face.” He turned his head and Tavros turned his own. As he took in the bull inspired paint concealing Tavros’ features, Gamzee found himself frowning. “You were weird today, motherfucker.”

“Vriska came over,” he dully said. “Came over for the one thing she wants.”

Gamzee swallowed a burning coal. “And I bet you fucking gave it to her because she’s got the fucking skills to manipulate you. No, that shit isn’t even motherfucking manipulation. You get off on her yanking your shit.”

Tavros sat up as Gamzee pushed himself to his feet and snatched a can off the ground. He swallowed spit as a spray paint can collided with the decorated brick. It was followed by a muffled grunt of throaty aggression. 

“Could you not assume shit like that?” Tavros’ words weren’t timid, but he was being cautious.

“There’s not a single fucking assumption up in the alleyway, you motherfucker, and you know the veracity of what’s coming out of my mouth.” He heaved a enduring exhale before pounding a set of knuckles into the wall, and Tavros released a disgusted groan at the sickening sound accompanying the impact. “What in the freshest of fucks does the cunt have to spill from her motherfucking snatch to get you to up and quit her?”

“You’re trying to simplify something no one can, man.” Tavros yanked his hat off and rubbed the back of his neck. “Sit down. You’re being weird, and Vriska’s one of your friends.”

He began walking backwards toward the street. “Motherfucker, I’m out of this fucking place. Sit your ass down by yourself. Can’t even find an uppity fuck to give about you in this moment. You go on and keep with your optimal lady, Tavbro, but don’t come crying to any of us when she fucks you over. You know proper the bitch will!”

Dragging a hand over his face, Gamzee smeared the sugar skull makeup painted across his features before finally turning around. Yanking his fallen hood up, the last thing he needed was to be identified while on the streets and shoved into the back of a cop car for possession of spray paint with intent to deface. Both Tavros and he had gained reputations over the past couple of years as street artists with the signatures Tinkerbull and :o), and the pair was professional at avoiding the police with various stunts involving upper body strength and the kind of running Gamzee dreaded. He had puked more than once by overexerting himself with a barely panting Tavros beside him, and those were the few moments in his life he considered a gym membership. Chicago’s spray paint ban was the blight of his existence.

Jogging into another alleyway, Gamzee spotted the chainmail fence and picked up his pace in order to give himself the momentum needed to yank his self upward. He was heading home to spend time with a bowl of Cheetos and Karkat’s Netflix account. The world around him was still bursting with luminous colors, but they were mocking him without mercy, and he was suddenly both exhausted and running on adrenaline. The likelihood of sleeping was minimal, but as he threw himself over the fence and hit the asphalt with a grunt, Gamzee didn’t have the energy to dwell on anything but how much he wanted to run Vriska into the ground.  


End file.
